


Frankenstein’s Neurosis

by Dxmjunkie



Category: House M.D., Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Cults, Graphic Description of Corpses, Insane Megalomaniacs, M/M, Murder Mystery
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-05-01
Updated: 2014-09-05
Packaged: 2018-01-21 10:55:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 17,548
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1548116
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dxmjunkie/pseuds/Dxmjunkie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Inexplicable lobotomy case near Brixton. John traverses to America seeking help from the inimitable Dr. House. Sherlock's chasing links between bodies. Wilson is just baffled, and really doesn't know why he's wearing this bullet proof vest. </p><p>In which Sherlock & House are cousins, Sherlock & John are engaged, and Wilson seriously needs to get over his insecurity issues.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Lobotomy & American Customs

**Author's Note:**

> So, I messed with both timelines in both series. Vaguely takes place around season 7 of House but without the Huddy nonsense. Chase, Thirteen and Masters are House’s current team. In regards to Sherlock, this is post-Reichenbach Fall but pre-season 3 canon because there’s no Mary. Hope that’s not too confusing! Also, I've never had medical training & have in no way in-depth studied biology and medicine. I'm making this all up. I am in no way pretending to be an expert.

 The man who walked into Dr. Lisa Cuddy’s office was of small stature and probably blended into a crowd easily. He was walking with a slight gait in his left leg, had on a harmless sweater and was smiling awkwardly as he rapped on the door with his knuckle.

“Hello? Dr. Cuddy?” He inquired politely.

“Yes? Do you have an appointment?” She quipped.

“No, er,” The man brought a hand through blond-gray hair, military short. The door shut quietly behind him. He had a distinctive British accent. “This is about Dr. Gregory House.”

“Oh, god. What has he done this time? If you are here to file a malpractice suit, I can get you in touch with our attor-“

“No, no!” He insisted, striding forward to stand at parade rest in front of her desk. “Nothing like that at all, though I can see why you’d automatically jump to that conclusion. My name is Dr. John Watson.”

Cuddy stood and calmly shook Dr. Watson’s hand over her desk as he continued, “My partner and I work with the Scotland Yard Police Department in London. Homicide division, actually.”

Cuddy’s face turned pale as her mouth unconsciously tightened, “That’s not reassuring.”

“Greg’s not in trouble or anything,” Dr. Watson replied, giving a quirky half-smile, “We actually need his help on a case we’re working on. 

“Okay…” Cuddy didn’t really see where this is going.

Dr. Watson pulled a manila folio from under his arm, handing it towards her. She flipped it open with easy grace, blue eyes scanning the information. It appeared to be meticulously-detailed autopsy reports of violent murders. Rather disgusting stuff about post-mortem brain transplanting. 

“There’s a serial killer targeting victims just outside of Brixton in London,” Dr. Watson explained. “He’s performing lobotomies on the victims and apparently somehow keeping their brains alive outside of their skull. We have no idea how he’s doing it. We know this because the murderer has been sending us complex neuroimaging of the functioning… Frankenstein brain is what we’re calling it. Greg’s medical expertise might be invaluable in helping us track down this person before he strikes again.”

 “You know the murderer is a he?”

“Statistically more likely.” Dr. Watson stated as though it was an afterthought. “So, I wanted to bring it up with the head of the hospital before I let Greg know about the case. This is the sort of puzzle that he’d refuse to back away from, even without permission.”

“So you’re asking permission. What can he do from here? He has another case right now you know, and many clinic hours to make up.”

“He can tell us quite a bit,” Dr. Watson said, taking the file back from Cuddy. “I have with me all the materials accessible by Scotland Yard plus dozens of samples from the crime scenes in biohazard containers out in the parking ramp. I was planning on signing them into your intake desk, if you give me your permission. My partner is probably at the St. Barts morgue right now, examining evidence from the autopsies. We’d only need a few days of his time.”

Cuddy’s eyes narrowed, “What exactly do you and your partner do?”

He looked a little chagrined, “My partner is a consulting detective and I work as a consulting doctor. The only ones in the world actually.”

Cuddy sat behind her desk and steepled her chin on her twined fingers.

“And you will be around to supervise him? I’ll need paperwork from Scotland Yard confirming your story.”

“Yes to both.” Dr. Watson grinned. “Plus with this case maybe Greg won’t cause too much trouble this week!”

“You call him Greg,” Cuddy mused. “Nobody calls him that. Not even his best friend. How do you know Dr. House?”

“He lived with us for a while, what was it? Thirteen months ago?”

“What? Really?”

“Yes, it was after he was in that rehab facility here in America. He went on sabbatical after and spent four months in London solving crimes with us. Kept him busy while he got over the longterm effects of withdrawal.”

Cuddy did the math and knew exactly what “sabbatical” he was referring to. It was during that dark time where House had just OD’d, Wilson was refusing to talk to him and to top it off he was in danger of losing his medical license. She’d never known where he went off to during that time, just that when he got back he’d looked better than before and was able to work again.

“All right, Dr. Watson. Permission granted. Please file all paperwork on the second floor, I'm sure one of House's fellows will assist you in locating it.”

“John,”

“Pardon?”

“Please just call me John." This strange British man said sheepishly, "I may still hold my medical license, but I’m more of a hired gun nowadays than an actual doctor. I work sometimes at a clinic by our flat, but nowhere as fancy as this fine hospital.”

Cuddy smiled, “Well, then, John. I suppose you’ll be off to tell him, then. Do you know where his office is?”

“Yes, thank you for your time, Dr. Cuddy.”

Well, this should be interesting, she thought, turning back to her paperwork.

-

As John walked towards House’s office, he smiled when he caught glimpse of his friend screaming bloody murder from behind a glass wall. You couldn’t hear what he was saying, but he was jabbing a dry-erase marker at a white-board and glaring accusingly at three doctors who sat around a table.

Sighing at the theatrics, he knocked on the door as he pushed it open and heard House snarl, “I’m rather BUSY-“ before the grumpy doctor cut himself off and blinked in surprise.

“ _John_? What the hell are you doing here?” House asked incredulously.

The three other doctors turned their necks in unison to stare at him.

John held the folder aloft, “Got a case for you, Greg. Thought this one was right down your alley.”

House frowned distrustfully, “A case that’s so important you came all the way from London to have me help?”

John nodded, tossing the file in front of him. “Sherlock thinks it’s a 9/10 if that’s any indication. 

The file was snatched open as he scanned the info, his gloomy expression quickly morphing to undisguised glee and interest.

“Oh, John- you didn’t!” House crowed as he crowded next to John and gave him a ‘manly’ one-armed hug, “And Sherlock said you were just terrible at gift-giving.”

The former soldier rolled his eyes, “Yeah, well, his list to Father Christmas is rather different from normal blokes. Anyway- I’ve got the scans on my laptop in my rental.”

“But we don’t have the actual zombie brain?” House inquired, thumbing through the reports and speed-reading.

“Unfortunately not. The last victim was discovered at fourteen hundred hours yesterday afternoon, same condition as the others. The murderer sends us updated scans every two hours, and we know when to expect another victim because the gray mass is growing. He’s weaving lobes of the brain together and the synapsis are still responding. It shouldn’t be medically possible,”

“Whose this?” The blond doctor sitting at the table pipped in at the first chance he got. 

John smiled at the group, “Sorry, yeah. I’m Dr. John Watson, an old friend of Greg’s.”

“John! Nobody calls me Greg, you know how much I hate that.” House whined petulantly.

“And it’s one of the very few things that actually makes you uncomfortable.” John confirmed, “Why else would I do it?”

A scowl was the only response given.

“I’m Chase,” said the man with a thick Aussie accent. “And this is Thirteen and Masters.”

“Pleasure to meet you.” John motioned to the file and continued, “I work with the Scotland Yard sometimes. The easiest way I guess is for me to tell you what’s going on. Those reports don’t say much and are relatively convoluted.”

House walked over and grabbed a cup of coffee for John as he took a seat at the table. Chase was watching this with something akin to awe. House never got coffee for other people. And this Dr. Watson called him by his first name (even despite the fact it was obviously done to annoy House, still).

“Did you already go through my handler, then?” House huffed as he dropped the mug on the table.

“Ta,” John murmured, “And yes. Dr. Cuddy has already approved your involvement in this case. But first things first…”

John pulled an iPad out of the bag at his side and flipped it on. After scrolling for a moment he brought up a form and handed it to Chase.

“Each of you will have to sign this, it’s police procedure. I know that as doctors you are already aware of patient confidentiality, but these forms are a little different. This states that you will not sell any information to the press or discuss the case with others until after we catch the serial killer. Then you can have at it.”

“Serial killer…” Thirteen breathed, sounding a little wary as she signed the next form.

Masters handed the iPad back to John, who nodded his thanks. House crossed his arms and stood over by the window in the office, waiting for him to speak.

“Alright, so here’s the situation. Five girls, four bodies, all between the ages of seventeen and twenty-four were taken from their homes in the last week and a half. They all lived alone, nothing in common outside of the fact they were students at a local university with outstanding grades. After the second victim was discovered and linked to the first, we discovered a proxy server hidden in the police archives. This link was sent to the head of the investigation, and to my partner.”

John turned his iPad to face the three doctors and tapped play. A neurological scan was showing a set of mismatched frontal lobes displaying activity. He scrolled to the next screen and the brain size grew, then to the next. Each time the brain showed more complex activity and seemed to almost be functioning as normal if you weren’t looking closely.

“So this guy lobotomized the brains out of one of his victims, then mismatched four different brains and sew them together to somehow form one functioning unit. Right now it’s missing its cerebellum, basal ganglia, thalamus and hypothalamus. Which also should be medically impossible, since the brain can’t function like that… but, that’s the puzzle I bring to you, Dr. House. Figure out how this brain is working, what drugs this guy is likely to be utilizing and what the finished creation could possibly be used for. The information you provide could stop this guy from murdering others and maybe save the person acting as the host, though that’s very unlikely.”

“But we don’t have access to the… patient,” Masters said, unsure of her wording. “Victim” seemed a little callous.

“No, but you have preserved samples of each brain utilized and you’ll have every record in Scotland Yard’s database at your disposal.” 

“How far has your genius detective gotten?” House quipped, curious.

“He’s frustrated,” John remarked hesitantly.

“He’s so stroppy that you came here to ask for help when one of Mycroft’s mules could’ve done it, isn’t he?” House answered knowingly.

John sighed and took a sip of coffee, “Not quite, but close. It was this or accidentally strangle him to death over his microscope at St. Barts. I have Molly on food watch for him during the days I spend here. Bloody berk. But I came because only a doctor, and also trusted soldier of her Majesties finest, can bring such sensitive human remains and other evidence across an international boarder without so much as batting an eyelash.”

“On the other side of the ocean,” House added, whistling. "Through American security." 

“Precisely. Anyway, the samples are locked in a freezer-case in the car. Shouldn't leave them there for too long." John reached up to clutch at his shoulder with a frown before adding, "I’ll need help will the cases, got a bit of a bum shoulder if you will.”

"Bullets will do that to you," House agreed. 

Chase stood, “I'll help.”

Masters and Thirteen both shot to their feet also. 

“Hey, ladies, I think the big bad Aussie can take care of a bio cases.” House snarked, “You both are going straight to the lab to work on our other patient. You know? The one bleeding out of her eyeballs?” 

John and Chase walked down the hall amiably to the elevator in silence. As soon as the doors closed Chase glanced over at him. 

“You’ve got questions.” John remarked, amused.

“Um, well, so how do you know House?”

“Old friend. Well, actually he’s second cousins with my partner.” 

“And your partner is?”

“The one and only Consulting Detective, Sherlock Holmes.”

Chase stood quietly for a moment, then gaped at John as they both started walking down the parking ramp.

“You’re THAT Dr. John Watson? The blogger? When I was in med school I’d read your blog every week! Then you took that three year hiatus and all.”

John sighed, obviously finding the subject distasteful, “Yeah, hiatus.”

He popped the trunk to the rental car, Chase moving to grab the large metal containers with biohazard logos on them. John also threw a large black bag around his waist and grabbed a smaller black box from the front seat.

“Bloody American cars,” John mumbled, fumbling with the keys.

“Suppose it’s a bit of an experience driving opposite,” Chase affirmed. “Happened to me for a while after I moved state-side. You get used to it.”

“Well, theres that and the fact that I don’t drive much. We work primarily in London so we mostly just take cabs.”

“So Sherlock Holmes is House’s second cousin?” Chase mused after a minute of companionable silence.

“If you met Sherlock you’d immediately see the resemblance.”

“They look alike?” Chase inquired.

“No, except the eyes a bit. Their personalities are scarily similar. You work with Greg, but you don’t live with him. Imagine two of them in the same flat.”

“He lived with you guys? When? After med school? He’s been working here for like ten years.”

John smiled, “Last year for a couple months. I’m sure you know what time I’m talking about.”

Chase flinched, and nodded, not meeting the other Doctors eyes.

“Best not to bring it up then, ta? Bit of a not good subject for him." John softly said, "You can gossip to your fellows but House is a private person.”

“We know that.” Chase affirmed. “But even if he is the biggest dick I’ve ever met, working for him is never boring." 

A burst of laughter erupted from the older doctor as they headed to the intake desk to record their samples in the database. 

“What?”

“Oh, nothing.” John grinned, “That’s just something I’ve said about working and living with Sherlock, is all. It’s never boring, indeed.”

Chase took the samples to the lab they used the most as John filed paperwork. Masters and Thirteen were there, talking. They turned in unison.

“So what did he say?” Masters asked, not really wanting to pry but also very much wanting to pry.

Chase sighed, sitting on one of the small round chairs in front of a testing unit, “Just that House is related to Sherlock Holmes. Second cousins.”

Both women’s jaw dropped. When the scandals of Sherlock Holmes were occurring in the UK, many American outlets also covered the sensational tale of the rise and fall and resurrection of their top sleuth.

“How in hell did that come up in your idle conversation?” Thirteen asked in disbelief.

“Holmes is Dr. Watson’s partner.”

“Oh my god, House said his name earlier.” Masters whispered to herself. “But I guess that makes sense since we’re going to be looking at a gruesome… serial killing investigation, isn’t it? I feel like this is a little out of my depth. 

“The patient is still alive, from what Dr. Watson said,” Chase reasoned. “Maybe we can save her?”

“After having her brain lopped off, and sewn together with other people’s brains? Yeah, maybe in Mary Shelley’s nightmares.” Thirteen quipped.

“Hence why I’ve been calling it the ‘Frankenstein Brain’” Dr. Watson walked casually into the lab with a smile on his face. “I have to go have a long chat with Greg, I’m guessing you can get started on the samples here?”

The three nodded.

“My recommendation is to check over the stuff Sherlock already examined, but do all the tests anyway even if it’s just to make sure the results are the same.” Dr. Watson remarked, pulling out a thick file.

“He’s a bit anal retentive about taking notes, but some of them might not make sense,” John admitted ruefully. “When he’s in deep thought, he reverts to latin shorthand. Even I can’t decipher it half of the time. 

“What’s he like?” Thirteen piped in, wondering if she was being rude.

John snorted, shouldering his bag again, “You’ve met Greg. Just imagine Sherlock as a British version of Greg only less about medicine and more about death and murders. Oh, and less inclined to steal your lunch. Good luck, Doctors.”

-

John leaned back into the chair behind House’s desk, nursing his cup of coffee.

“How have things been?” He inquired absently.

“Idle chit chat, John? Really?” House snarked.

The former soldier shrugged amiably, “If you want to talk about work right away, that’s fine too.”

House propped his chin on his hands, “I suppose that’s what you and Sherlock still do. All the time. Every day. When he’s not in his damn mind palace.”

“Well, that was before we got engaged.” John admitted, a shy smile splitting across his face.

“Congrats on that by the way," House grinned wolfishly. "You are seriously more insane than I’d ever could have imagined.”

House swiveled in his chair, “You forgave the unforgivable after The Fall." 

John nodded ruefully, “I did. And I always will."

The consulting doctor paused for a long moment, staring out House's office window, "I was so alone, and I owe him so much. I plan to marry him and catch bad guys with him and learn everything I can about the science of bloody deduction with him until we decide to retire.”

“Then what?” House was honestly curious. 

“We’ll move to Sussex and he’ll keep bees and I’ll write the next great British novel. If we don’t die in some horrific way, first.”

“Of course.” House chuckled, shrugging, "What are Sherlock's percentages on that?"

John opened his mouth to reply but a knock on the door had him turning around.

Wilson’s head popped into House’s office. He glanced at John for a fleeting moment before asking, “Lunch?”

“Can’t, got a new case.”

“I thought you already had a case. The girl whose bleeding from her eyes and anus? The ‘better bleeding virgin Mary theory’ as you called her before?” Wilson retorted.

John barked a laugh at that one and stood, “Hullo. I know that Greg’s rubbish at introductions. I’m Dr. John Watson.”

They shook hands but Wilson stared at him blankly before seeming to return to himself, his tone was stunned as he incredulously sputtered, “I’m Dr. James Wilson. You call him _Greg_?" 

“I’ve told him to stop!” House whined, loud and catty.

John smirked, “You know damn well why I get to call you Greg.”

House glared, “That was blackmail, John. You and your damn fucking fiancé blackmailed me and I don’t appreciate being threatened by my own family. 

“Family.” John echoed sarcastically.

House crossed his arms to pout. 

Wilson stood, staring blankly at the both of them, trying to understand what was going on but deciding it wasn’t worth it, “Um… I guess I’ll catch you later.”

He left without another word.

John looked back at the taciturn diagnostician. “Is he your friend, the one who stopped talking to you?”

House nodded, “Yeah, he’s the one I told you guys about. After I got back we eventually became friends again. It took a while, but…”

“He forgave the unforgivable?” John repeated wryly. 

“I guess so.” House mused. A moment later he broke the silence with a fierce grin, "So, let's discuss this serial killer. Ten points for originality, I'd say." 

TBC.


	2. Posterior Auricular Vein

“To be honest, this is one of the barmiest cases I’ve ever seen,” John remarked as he dropped back into the chair. “I mean, Sherlock is about as baffled as I’ve ever seen him. Besides, er– with Moriarty of course.”

“Of course,” House frowned. “It will take a while for my team to get through the samples, especially if they are trying to reference Sherlock’s crap handwriting. What else can you tell me?”

“Well," John began, "The bodies were found in impeccable condition, minus the missing lobes of brain. The cuts to the skull were professional, surgical, as if for a medical procedure. Bone saw, stainless steel, non-perforated edge. No signs of sexual assault, no struggle. Tox screens came back with trace amounts of benzodiazepine derivatives in their system, administered via injection behind their ear.”

“Behind the ear?” House echoed doubtfully, “That’s the stupidest spot for an injection site, ever.”

“Well, sure, for medical doctors it would be nonsensical. But we’re talking about a serial killer. Slam the needle right down the posterior auricular vein and you have not only a hidden injection site but also an unconscious victim in ten seconds flat. Most people don’t think to check-”

“Yah, okay, I get that part, clever injection site. But c’mon, those drugs would immediately impair the pristine brain he was trying to lobotomize and experiment on. We’ll have to consider other drugs that he could have used,” House tapped his fingers rhythmically on his glass desk. “Some types of biocides might not show up on regular tox screens. We’ll need that information when determining how he is keeping the host brain alive.”

“Sherlock’s been searching for more subtle signs in their organs. He’s done autopsies on each victim three times by the time I left London. He’s ruled out most poisons and doubts it would have been an over the counter medication.”

“Why not?”

John shrugged with an eye-roll, “He deduced it, hell if I know the particulars. I’m the medical doctor, but he still treats me like the greenhorn.”

“Give me some details on the victims.” House responded, ignoring John’s complaints.

John huffed but pulled out his iPad and flicked the screen on.

“First victim, Sophie Emerson, 20. She’s the body we haven’t recovered, the host. She’s a entry-level worker for an Alzheimer’s Society but taking classes on the side. Second victim, Dafiya Quadeer, 17.” John sighed sadly, his face crumpling slightly.

“Dafiya was a honors student who had a part-time job at a convenience shop. Third, Una Illingworth, 23, she was a graduate student at King’s College, getting her degree in political sciences. Fourth, Madhu Emani, 24, she worked in her families shawarma restaurant while going to school. And the most recent victim was Dana Edelstein, 21, a full-time researcher with the university.”

“Well, I’m sure Sherlock pointed out-“

“That the next victims will be eighteen, nineteen or twenty-two years old, yes. Not really a lot to go on to narrow down potential targets.”

“Were all of them sexually active?”

John shook his head in negation, “No, one of the girls was not. Three others were on the pill and the remaining girl had an Implanon birth control still intact in her arm. Sherlock’s created his macabre board in our flat trying to discern things that tied the girls together outside of the glaringly obvious.”

The former soldier sounded frustrated as he continued, “So far the only thing we’ve noticed is that they all received good marks at the same university, lived alone within a commuting distance of campus, had stable families, no mutual acquaintances, are of varying ages and ethnicities and have no criminal history to speak of. They didn’t even have the same hobbies, none were in the same clubs.”

“How big is the student body?”

“Around twenty-five thousand students.”

House let out a low whistle.

They sat in a companionable silence for a moment as they mulled over the case.

Unsurprisingly, House broke it.

“So I’m assuming you want to stay with me while your here?”

John nodded sheepishly, “That would be lovely. I could get a hotel, but I get the feeling I won’t be spending much time there and it would be a waste of money.”

“Doesn’t matter, it’s fine.” House paused, “You do know that I live with Wilson now, don’t you?”

John’s eyebrows shot up on his forehead, “Really? Oh, then I shouldn’t intrude-“

A snort emitted from the taciturn diagnostician, “You’re not intruding. If anything, I get the feeling you and Wilson will get along splendidly. You can make tea together and talk about good ingredients for pasta salad.”

“So are you two…” John hedged.

“None of your business.”

“Okay, none of my business despite the fact that I might accidentally walk in on you-“

“No, no, nothing like that.” House cut him off. “Wilson's my best friend. He’s dating an idiot nurse from radiology right now and is decidedly hetero. So hetero in fact that he has three alimonies each month. ”

John snorted, “You’d be amazed how little sexuality matters when you fall in love.”

“Well maybe for you, though I don't think you're a good control group to glean data from.”

“Especially for me. You’ve always been gender blind, Greg, you told me that. I wasn’t. I was convinced that I was straight, no question. It was only a heartbeat after he fell that I realized how much he meant- means, to me. And I thought he was dead. I thought he committed suicide.”

“Oh god, you’re going to get all dramatic and nostalgic to prove a point, aren’t you?” House demanded nastily.

John twined his fingers on his lap and continued as if he hadn’t heard, “I used to go to his grave and plead to his tombstone for him not to be dead. And you know what?”

“You got your wish," House postulated flatly. "That idiot genius showed up, you bounced into his arms, reconciliation, happily ever after.” 

“Partly,” John chuckled, the sound he made was regretful. “I did get him back, but I broke his nose on my fist as soon as I saw him. Ruddy prat didn’t even apologize. He just told me he did it to protect me. I refused to talk to him for over two months. I was so furious, especially now that I knew I’d been in love with him. I wasn’t sure if I could ever forgive him for making me watch him jump.”

House bit his lip, “But you weren’t in love with him when I was in London. If anything, you act how Wilson and I act. Completely platonic.”

“We weren’t lovers, back then, yeah, but can you seriously say our relationship was completely platonic?” John asked rhetorically. "Sherlock and I have always been… unhealthily co-dependent." 

House thought back to the months he stayed in London. Dark days that he wished he could forget. Wilson was gone, he was practically unemployed and about to lose his medical license. It had been hell to start with, the withdrawal, and it was lucky Sherlock was a right bastard because House had been absolutely vicious.

But whenever House went after John, snapped at him or ridiculed him, Sherlock had shut him down so quickly it made his head spin. He’d never known his cousin to be so protective of anything besides his violin.

It was never because House didn’t like John. He was actually indifferent about the man in general at first, except to find it odd that Sherlock attached himself to this commonplace doctor. But he’d been lashing out at the only people he could to try to force away the crippling loneliness and boredom and ache for suicide.

Then Sherlock invited him to Bart’s for a case and he was suddenly working again, and it wasn’t the kind of puzzles he normally craved but they were puzzles anyway; albeit fascinating. John and Sherlock lived in an adrenaline fueled dangerous world. This pair didn’t just complacently accept their fate; they embraced it, thrummed alongside disorder and chaos as if it was a natural and erroneous routine. 

House had long since admitted to himself that he admired Sherlock and John for their respective assets. 

John’s wry chuckle shook him from his thoughts. He’d obviously remained silent for too long.

“And your point, being?” House snapped, but his eyes gave away his unease. “I confess to him and ta-daaa, just like you, he becomes magically bisexual and we fall into romantic bliss?”

The smaller doctor’s smirk softened into a smile and he opened his mouth to respond, but House’s office door opened.

“Well that is the weirdest thing I’ve ever seen,” Chase announced.

Masters nodded, “The readings are all over the place.”

John frowned as he turned in his chair, “What do you mean?”

“We were watching the videos of the brain and their synapses while waiting for results, and Dr. Holland was in the lab so we asked him what he thought,” Thirteen murmured.

House glared, “Couldn’t think of something by yourself?”

“Well, we didn’t tell him that it was a… whatever it is.” Thirteen continued. “We just asked what he thought, and told him to ignore the missing bits. He said the first thing he noticed was that the synapses reacted as if the brain was being constantly assaulted by pain.”

John blinked, surprised. Sherlock hadn’t mentioned that.

“When looking at how the individual lobes react to one another, it varies, right? Almost looks like it’s working properly?” Masters cut in. “But if you look back at the whole thing, the parietal lobe is lit up like a Christmas tree. I have no idea if the, um, victim can feel this pain, but if she can it’s likely torture.”

John rubbed his hand over his mouth with a grim nod. “Well, it’s on our end to find this guy. What I need to know is if there were any other drugs utilized.”

“We could debate it till our faces turn blue,” Chase remarked, “But we won’t be able to tell much without the… victim.”

House cleared his throat, “How’s our other patient? The anus-bleeder?”

“She’s going through her second round of Inderal to clear up her varices. Her optic nerve isn’t as swollen and her blood pressure is stabilizing.”

“How’s the kidneys?”

“Looking better now that we took her off of the Naproxen.”

“Alright, I want Chase in charge of the bleeding girl. Masters, Thirteen, you’re going through the Physicians’ Desk Reference, starting with the letter A, and you’re going to find drugs that could assist this serial guy.”

Thirteen’s jaw dropped, “That’s a shot in the dark!”

John bit his lip, “Maybe, but with the killers schedule, the next victim should show up on the videos in three hours.”

House glanced at the clock, “Midnight, every time?”

John nodded his affirmation.

Chase frowned, “But it will only be five.”

“London time.” John mentioned, pulling his phone out of his pocket. “I’m going to check in with Sherlock, then I’ll come back and help you two with your research.”

TBC.


	3. The Devoutly Deranged

Hours passed silently in the lab as House’s fellows meticulously conducted test upon test. The only noises were clinks of petri dishes and feminine huffs of disapproval when each result came back negative. John helped the two with what he could, mostly translating Sherlock’s eccentric notes, but he eventually retreated back to House’s fishbowl of an office for a cuppa.

House lounged like a pro. He was twirling in his chair as he stared at the whiteboard with his cane propped beneath his chin. Symptoms pertaining to liver failure were written in his sloppy scrawl. House had already solved that puzzle, of course. He was completely emerged in this new murder case, tossing facts around internally.

John knew better than to interrupt him when he got like that so he typed slowly on his computer with avid concentration for twenty minutes. House absently wondered how someone who blogged constantly could only type with his two index fingers. It reminded him of a chicken pecking uselessly. 

House got to his feet, limping over to refill his mug with lukewarm coffee.

“Can I hook my laptop up with your telly?” John inquired, glancing at the taciturn diagnostician out of the corner of his eye.

“Why?” House grunted, not caring one way or the other.

“Once your fellows come back we’ll conference call Sherlock,” The former soldier explained. “It’s just past the three hour mark, there should be another body at Bart’s. Lestrade would’ve brought it in himself, Sherlock promised that he wouldn’t poke his nose around crime scenes without me.”

John didn’t wait for House’s approval, he started pulling chords out of his bag and bringing them over to the outlet by the flatscreen. He squinted at the small ports on the side of the device before frowning down towards the American adaptors he’d purchased in London. Locating the correct one, he went to work.

“I’m surprised you know how to do that.” House admitted, “I remember you and technology not having a mutually beneficial relationship.”

John snorted, “True enough, I suppose. My mate Mike taught me the basics on this before I left. He knows all about tech stuff from teaching lectures.”

Deft hands untangled long chords as he walked back to plug them into his computer. John’s desktop background with the Bart’s logo flashed on the television. Jiggling the mouse, he pulled up the hospital’s wireless network effortlessly before opening his Skype and logging in. 

Just as he finished entering his password, House’s fellows wandered back into the office. Masters and Thirteen sat on the opposite side of the table, facing away from the glass wall. Both were glaring at the reports in their hands as if they couldn’t believe them. 

“We couldn’t really find anything that wasn’t already in the notes.” Thirteen admitted quietly after House cleared his throat.

“Oh, fantastic,” House goaded. “How much help are you, then?” 

“Greg, not helping.” John scolded his friend sternly, earning startled glances from the female doctors when House stuck out his tongue childishly but otherwise acquiesced. 

“So,” John continued seamlessly, “What do we need to find out?” 

Masters frowned. “Okay…”

They usually started through cases listing off what they already knew, not creating more questions. It went against House’s diagnostic methods. But it was almost like her boss was allowing Dr. Watson to run the show. It would have been dreadfully amusing if it wasn't so shocking.

“Alexia’s stable for now.” Chase strode in and tossed his files onto the desk before pouring himself some coffee and hovering by the table. “I told her family they could be in the room to keep her company. We’ll have to see if the hypertension escalates. If it wasn’t a variceal hemorrhage and the bleeding in her liver was caused by a heart condition, the next step is surgery for a pacemaker.”

“She wouldn’t survive invasive surgery-” Thirteen objected but was quickly interrupted. 

House quickly rattled off, “It was clearly Budd Chiari syndrome. The heart palpitations and hypertension looked like it was from the energy drinks. But too much salt? Kidneys go through the wringer, early onset cirrhosis exacerbated into acute BCS. She won’t need a pacemaker. Her heart problems were a cause not a symptom. Now, can we go back to the more interesting zombie brain?”

It wasn’t a question. John clicked the video and they all turned to examine the flatscreen. It looped the before and after scans of the most recent victim. A lobe of brain would appear and disappear. It was like a sick sideshow trick. 

“What do we need to find out?” John repeated. “Injection site behind the ear. No signs of a struggle, which indicates sedation. No sexual assault, therefore, primary motive remains unclear. Then, the lobotomy."

His finger tapped on the glass desk, "What drugs could force the synapses into in-vitro artificial activity? What kind of treatment could keep the body, let alone the brain, alive in these conditions? Unsterilized environment at the crime scenes, we don’t know what sort of set-up he has but the tools he used were surgical-grade. So, medical background.”

Chase frowned, not sure what to think about this strange methodology. It was a mix of criminology and medicine. Oh, he mentally slapped himself, remembering reading that crazy blog. The Science of Deduction. Forcing himself to concentrate, he sat at the end of the desk beside Masters.

“The scans don’t show any signs of cerebral hypoxia, meaning the brain never lost oxygen despite the transfer.” Masters added, eyes trained on the screen as she spoke carefully. It was obvious she was still coming to terms with the sheer cruelty of the situation.

“It’s astonishing that no clots or swelling formed.” Chase added.

“Perhaps the pain receptors are a way to keep the brain active and detract from swelling? Something imitating or affecting the myelin sheath?” Thirteen sounded unsure of herself. 

“So, he injects the girls,” John twined his hands on the desk in front of him, lips curled in distaste. “Then he opens their skull. He removes the portion of the brain he needs, and leaves the rest for Scotland Yard to find. Why would he leave so much evidence behind? Then he probably puts the organ into a container for transport, but what? Liquid would effectively cut off oxygen, electric jolts to the raw brain would cause clear damage on the scans.”

“If you ignore the fact that this brain is incomplete and the synapses are firing too fast, on the surface it looks undamaged,” Thirteen hummed. “Perhaps he temporarily freezes them?” 

“The fusion between different lobes of brain is another angle to consider,” House sighed. “Those scans make it seem like the opposing dendrites and axons are working seamlessly together. But the victims have different blood types. They should by their very nature reject foreign platelets. The blood is sufficiently oxygenized…”

“So, we have a clear case of a blood substitute being used.” John agreed. “The substitute wouldn’t be administered to the dead, only the host. It’s probably being pumped into the host at regular intervals.” 

“The blood substitute would have to work with whatever drug they used for sedation.” Masters piped in. 

John smirked, “Which the murderer thinks is untraceable.” 

“'I love the brilliant ones, always so desperate to get caught'” House quoted, John's wane amusement at the remark not reaching clear blue eyes. 

“The condition of the host body,” Chase's accent was purposefully exaggerated. “It would require some sort of mechanical ventilation, forcing stable lung compressions. Ablation therapy for the heart, oropharyngeal airway keeping the muscles relaxed.”

“What did the host start off with?” Thirteen asked, her thin lips pursed.

“It’s hard to tell from the scans because he only shows down to the cervical curve.” John replied, clicking so the full video played. “No time stamp, we don’t know how long the original host went without her brain before the first lobe was weaved in.”

“Spinal chord,” House muttered to himself.

“What?” John asked, head cocked to the side. 

“The spinal chord and brain stem are what the host kept.” House’s voice grew louder. “Then the frontal, parietal, temporal and occipital followed.” 

“So, how many victims before he considers the brain complete?” Masters voice was tinged with anguish. “If we want to go into individual sections remaining, I can list up to a dozen smaller areas in the brain he could add piece by piece.”

The British doctor shook his head in negation, “Sherlock thinks three more.”

“Three?” House echoed. “So, basal ganglia, thalamus and hypothalamus together with the cerebellum being the crowning chunk of gray matter.”  

His fellows flinched at the crude language. John didn’t seem to notice, however. He was immune to callous declarations after being exposed to Sherlock for so many years. Though of course you would never hear the consulting detective refer to any body part as a ‘chunk’. 

“Let’s get Sherlock on the line."

"Didn't you say it's like one in the morning there?" Chase inquired.

"Sherlock's not exactly known for keeping normal sleeping hours when a case in on."

Only House heard the sheer fondness laced in that statement.

"If the murderer kept his pattern," John continued, "the next body would’ve already been found by now and been transported to Bart’s for autopsy.” 

Thirteen and Masters, despite the serious peculiarity of this situation, gave each other knowing and excited looks. Sherlock Holmes was, from the photos they’d seen, a very attractive man.

Chase saw their conspiring looks, scoffing, though he too was excited to meet the infamous detective. House ignored them all equally, twirling his cane around with a bored expression. 

After adjusting the webcam so all of the doctors were in view, John typed in the number for Bart’s morgue on his laptop. The line connected after a few rings. Molly Hooper’s face appeared wearing an awkward grimace of a smile. Something was wrong.

"'Ello, John." She waved, glancing around at the other people on her screen.

"What's wrong?" John demanded in his Captain Watson tone, standing up with an immediate burst of adrenalin.

The three fellows stared up at the doctor in astonishment, not expecting this soft-spoken man to sound so authoritative.

Molly bit her lip, "Okay, sorry, just, um, don't freak out-"

"Molly!" John barked.

"Mycroft dropped by right after the call came from Detective Inspector Lestrade. They found the sixth victim by the banks of the Themes," Molly hurried to explain. "I don't know what he said but Sherlock left with him. He hasn't been answering his cell, I've tried."

John brought his hand to massage his temple as he fought blind panic.

"Hello, Molly," House cheerfully waved at her.

"Oh, Dr. House!" Molly's fingers nervously tucked a few strands of hair behind her ear. "You've been well?"

"Of course, and-" House was cut off by John's glare.

"Did Sherlock find anything before he left?"

"No, not that I know of. If he did he didn't say."

"Have you started on the new body?"

"Yes, I was just prepping for organ removal."

"Injection site the same?" House asked, curious.

"Yes. We have an ID, as well." Molly disappeared from the screen for a moment. "Her name is Fran Eisner, date of birth August 10, 1996."

"Can you tell which part of the brain was removed?"

Molly frowned, glancing over her shoulder at the corpse. "I haven't examined her much yet. The incision cuts from the side at an angle between the sphenoid to the temporal of the skull. It's her left brow on either side, across the back. From the looks of that I'd say thalamus or basal ganglia."

"Alright," John stated quietly. "Thanks for your help, Molly."

"Sorry," she repeated.

This British woman was very skittish, thought Chase, wondering why.

After disconnecting the call, John was immediately typing into his laptop. House instantly recognized the number and smirked. Mycroft Holmes would detest the very notion of a conference call.

The call connects after one ring with a mild, "Ah, John-"

"Cut the shite, Mycroft." John demands quietly, his temper flaring. "Where is he?"

Mycroft's delicate eyebrow quirked, frowning at the group of assembled medical professionals. He caught House's gaze for a moment, his face pointedly stoic and unreadable. House couldn't help but smirk back at the smarmy git.

"My brother was regrettably required for urgent business."

John's voice took on a ruthless edge, "And what business might that be?"

The elder Holmes sighed, looking very much put upon. He clearly did not want to say this in front of an audience.

"It would seem that… this current case might have ties with a former one."

His heart was beating rapidly, John almost had a panic attack until Mycroft added, "Obviously not James Moriarty, Dr. Watson. He remains in a grave. And you know very well which one."

"Then what-"

"I believe you dubbed that particular case, 'The Devoutly Deranged.'"

House stiffened, "You mean the Forest Hill cult?"

"Indeed, Dr. House."

John dropped back into his chair, dazed. "Well, _fuck_."

TBC.


	4. Pellisier's Estate

“Forest Hill cult?” Chase was fairly certain he'd never heard that name before. Glancing at Thirteen and Masters, it was obvious they hadn't either. 

Mycroft Holmes frowned, really just the slightest twinge of his lower lip. House thought the expression made him look severely constipated. He knew the frown equally grated on John’s nerves by the pointed way the former soldier cleared his throat at his soon-to-be brother-in-law.  

“Sherlock will be in touch with you soon, John.” The eloquent voice said primly, giving a cursory glance at the younger doctors before his eyes rested back on House. The taciturn diagnostician lifted his chin, a challenging glower making him look downright feral. 

Mycroft hummed rhetorically, "I'm sure with the assistance of the inimitable Doctor Gregory House, this case is as good as solved?" 

The flatscreen defaulted back to John’s desktop background. Just as soon as the call ended, John was pacing the length of the glass table with a sobering efficiency. 

“And who the hell was that?” Thirteen asked, unnerved by the sheer absurdity of this situation. She’d known that working with House would be crazy at the best of times and utterly terrifying at the worst, but this was an altogether different breed of insanity. 

“He sounded really ominous.” Masters added nervously. 

John’s words were muffled by his fist covering his mouth, he was clearly miles away, “It’s quite a long story.” 

House's expression could almost be mistaken for empathy, “What are you gonna do?” 

John met House’s eyes and paused his pacing, “I don't know. I need some air- I should try to call Sherlock." He jerked his chin in the direction of the fellows. "You wanna tell them about Forest Hill?” 

“If I must,” House attempted a frankly insulting British accent, trying to get a chuckle out of his friend. “Though I shan’t enjoy it.” 

John nodded with a humorless smile before exiting the office. He didn't glance back, his cell phone was already clutched tightly in his hand and against his ear. 

"So… Who was that guy, then?" Chase repeated Thirteen's question.

"Mycroft Holmes, Sherlock's elder brother." House muttered, chewing on his thumb as he stared at the flatscreen for a long moment. 

"And the cult?" Masters squeaky voice was noticeably apprehensive. 

House propped the cane on the arm of his chair, dropped his hands to his knees and glared towards his ducklings. He was feeling slightly defeated. House wasn't sure how much personal information he would be required to reveal from the telling of this story. He parsed his words with extreme care.

"While I was," He wrinkled his nose in disgust. " _Couch surfing_ at Sherlock and John's pad in London, there was this. . . case. It started off as something pretty mundane.Tax fraud, embezzlement, bribery, that kind of thing."

"But," His voice dipped an octave lower. "It got pretty bad." 

House gnawed on his chapped lip, spinning from side to side in his chair. 

"So this group called Forest Hill cult was eventually found to be responsible for the fraud and embezzlement. The top leaders were taken into custody. From what I remember, a few of the main dudes involved managed to have their sentences reduced to barely a slap on the wrist. That was way back before forensic science really took off, it was in the early 90s… Or was it in the late 80's?" House frowned. 

"I'm telling this wrong. I'll start from the beginning.” 

The room was silent as the eldest doctor paused, gathering up his thoughts. 

"So, once upon a time, there was a group of religious fanatics in a place called Forest Hill. The premise of the cult was basically contrived by a crazy French women during a drug-induced binge in the 70’s. It's central tenants had to do with combining all religions to find the older source of god." 

House smirked, effortlessly getting on a tangent. "Sherlock used to always call the group a cult, but the media always called it a 'new-age religion.' Irked the hell out of John with that one, lemme tell you. Sherlock loved to point out that the only reason people believe through blind faith in the Judeo-Christian monotheistic religions" his voice lilted to a British pout, "is because evidently its followers are desensitized to how insanely reprehensible and illogical their own special brand of wishful thinking is. Morals, indeed!" 

The three fellows stared at their boss, not sure what to say. They'd never heard House talk like, but it was the almost affectionate way his countenance shifted that caught them each off guard. Dr. House really did seem to admire and respect Sherlock Holmes. 

House eventually chortled, "So, back to this cult. A bunch of bullshit, really, but unsurprising that it gained  followers. The rest, ladies and gents, is Scientology and Cargo Cult history." 

"Okay. _So_. This cult." Thirteen hedged. "It's probably behind the murders?" 

"If that's what Mycroft suspects, then it's true." House confirmed. 

"What does, um," Masters hesitated. "the elder Holmes, do exactly? Is he with the police?"

"He didn't look like a cop," Thirteen objected. 

House snorted caustically. "That man is practically the British government." 

"That doesn't even make sense," Chase was not in the mood for jokes. "Back on topic. What does this cult's involvement tell us? Get to the damn point." 

"The religion of the victims needs to be carefully parsed over." House reasoned, leaning forward to snag John's laptop. 

"But first, some more riveting backstory," 

He quickly accessed Scotland Yard's database, entering Greg Lestrade's information and hoping the detective inspector hadn't changed his password. House smirked when he was allowed access. How useful the negligence of the Yard's finest could be. House was certain Sherlock longed to taunt Lestrade with numerous scathing remarks about the kind of man working for the police force who never changed his username and password on a regular basis. It was such an amateur move. 

House typed in the name of the leader, the spelling long-since memorized. The fellows watched wordlessly as police records popped up, one by one. Clicking to the most recent file, a mug shot and some general information are quickly scanned by the group of doctors.

“Okay, so here is the main guy that got away. Alec _Pellisier_ ,” House said the name with obvious distaste. 

“Criminal record a mile long, everything from auto theft to petty drinking charges to beating up ex-girlfriends. Really cool guy. He was the son of crazy French lady, took up her mantle after she did a cool-aid binge with cleaning solutions. She dies in…" House pulls of a certificate of death with a color photo. "1987."

The French lady looks perfectly respectable. Masters tries not to stare into the black-and-white grin watching her from the flatscreen. 

"The cult, which was around twelve thousand strong back then, goes quiet. Fast forward to 1991. An agent for the Yard discovers a paper trail of forged currency spanning nine countries and the tell-tale signs of bribery to three bank reps. Not enough evidence though, so the case is reluctantly closed. Then in 1996, suddenly you have a dozen bank accounts completely sucked dry.”

Bank record flashed on the screen, showing hundreds of the thousands of misplaced pounds. 

Thirteen frowns, trying to forge a link between embezzlement and murder/lobotomy.  

House brings up another account, this one baring the name Amery Kellen. “So, 1996 is when Pellisier is arrested and convicted alongside a bunch of his _mates_. He serves five years in prison. Out on good behavior sponsored by, surprise surprise, a religious program. But, he’s meticulously monitored and on strict probation. So he doesn't make a peep."

House opens a couple newspaper clippings on the screen. 

"June, 2001. Bank statements surface to the public that show the accounts from ’96 were all owned by former members of the Forest Hill cult. The British paparazzi had a field day with this, but international news didn't cover the story much. 

“And then at the end of 2002, seven of the nine top leaders of the cult, two of which were in maximum security detainment facilities, disappear. Poof! Nada, nothing. No body, no trace. That guy, Kellen, was one of felon fugitives along with this lady,” a photo of a middle-aged women with graying hair appears on the screen. She has the hardened unforgiving traits of a longtime inmate. "Margery Elliott." 

Several other missing persons reports show up on the screen. “So, seven people disappear in 2002. Pellisier is still where they left him. The remaining original leader died of cancer or something equally boring."

House brings Pellisier's photo along with Kellen and Elliott's up again, side by side, rugged mugshots  glaring eerily at them. The other four are small thumbnails below. 

"The bank, of course, freezes the assets. Combined it was worth a couple hundred million pounds. So, the bank accounts which were apparently empty anyway from the embezzlement, get frozen, wiped off the map from any investigation. All the leaders vanish into the ether. Sherlock became slightly involved in November of 2012, a decade later. But, he was mostly solving the cold-case disappearances because he was on a bored tangent, not because there were any new details. Then bam, January 2013.”

Masters gasps audibly in the quiet of the room, Thirteens face wrinkled with disgust. Chase remains expressionless as he reads the chilling report stamped confidential. Next to the report a gruesome photo is almost too horrible to look at. 

The photo on the screen shows a group of six people in an odd pentagram-slash-cross formation. They are absolutely gutted, their dried-out intestines marking a circle and tied off together with crude stakes in the ground. 

House grunts, "Six victims turn up in Forest Hill, on the original estate of the Pellisier family."

"And I'm guessing a few of them were the missing people?" Thirteen whispers. 

"All six." House nods grimly. "So from top-to-bottom we have victims of varying backgrounds. They all ended up in the clan somehow but they had no connecting social backgrounds etcetera."

Chase forces himself to squint at the faces. They are barely recognizable as human let alone people. The extensive mutilation obscures a lot of details. 

"So, whose missing?"

"Elliott and Kellen." Masters breathes. 

House is surprised she was the one to notice first. "Correct. Good 'ol Alec Pellisier is top and center." 

His body is strewn in a different position than the others. His thin arms have slivers of bone visible, it's as if he's reaching for the sky. He's also the only victim missing the cap of his skull. Chase can't tell if his brain isn't showing because of the angle of the photo or if it's missing entirely. 

House clicks through a slide-show of graphic photographs. Yep. Brain entirely missing. Chase pushes his lukewarm coffee mug away, his stomach lurching at the images. 

"Not so pretty." House closes the folder, typing in another name. 

This time he types in Holmes, Sherlock. The date on the folder reads January 6, 2013. 

"Sherlock was pleased as punch this case came just in time for his birthday." House comments absently. 

He knows what goes unspoken. That December prior was when his entire life went to hell in a hand basket. When he'd lost everything and forcibly got clean following his stint in rehab. Masters wasn't around, but Chase and Thirteen were. House was already residing in London during Christmas and New Years. It had been a cheerless holiday for all parties involved. 

"So," House pushed on. "This case lasts almost until March of that year. Eventually Sherlock and John chase down Elliott and Kellen in Ireland. Both of them died during the confrontation." 

Thirteen gasps, "Both? How did they die?" 

"Bullet to the brain." House pauses, knowing this will be hard for his ducklings to believe. "And before you ask, John Hamish Watson on both counts." 

Masters' delicate jaw drops, "Dr. Watson?"

"Veteran." Chase murmurs. 

"John names the case the Devoutly Deranged on his blog. Thus closing the stain on history known as the Forest Hill cult."

"Until now." The Australian doctor looks a lot overwhelmed. It's a rare expression on him, House thinks. 

So he echoes for a suitably dramatic affect, "Until now." 

"Jeepers," Masters hands lace on her lap, she stares blankly at her reflection on the table. 

"So, let's look into the religions of the most recent victims?" Thirteen eventually suggests. 

Chase scoffs, "No, I'd leave that to them. We are here as doctors."

House smirks approvingly, "Exactly- we should get back to-"

His phone rings, cutting him off. House frowns at the ring-tone, glancing down at the screen before scoffing in irritation.

"You know John is freaking out-" House snapped. 

A voice on the other end cuts him off. House listens for a long minute. 

"Fine, yea- but still-" pause, "What, are you goddamn kidding me? **NO**!" 

Another pause, House is scowling. "No, I won't. Grow some big boy panties and deal with your problems." 

House's clench shut as he snarls, "No _shit_ , Sherlock!"

The fellows awkwardly side-glance at each other in somewhat surprised amusement. That was a colloquialism they never thought they'd hear aimed at the person it was named after. 

"John is gonna freak the-fuck- _out_ no matter what- No… yes! He'll probably get on the next damn flight- You know what? You're the fuckin' wanker for calling me first!"

Wilson walks into House screaming at his phone, his fellows staring at him with a mixture of awe and consternation. The Oncologist peered at the screen of mug shots. What kind of case was House into, this time? 

And what was with the British doctor he'd just seen doing looming in the front entry? The poor guy had been glaring at the sunset with his phone clutched tightly against his ear, looking about to cry from frustration. 

"Sherlock, this is your shit to deal with. Talk to John. Not me." House accentuated each pause "I won't cover for you, _no way_. Learned my lesson over a year ago, you got it?"

House swiped at his phone with his thumb, chucking the device back on the table. He leaned his head back, exhaling with an aura of exasperation.

"I am surrounded by morons."

"Hey, I resent that," Wilson demurred as he proper the door with his elbow, cocking his head to the side as he stared quizzically at his friend. 

"Oh, hey Wilson," House says absently until he spots what his friend is holding. 

"Is that Asian Fuji Kitchen?" House yelps, getting to his feet with a belated grimace when his leg twinges. 

Wilson grins, his easy and friendly expression well received by the younger doctors. 

"Figured this would be a late night. I'm heading home, but I know you four will forget about eating, so…"

Chase jumps to his feet, eagerly relieving Wilson of his greasy Chinese burden. He'd dives into the crumpled paper bag. Chase had been the exact opposite of hungry not even five minutes before, but the delightful aroma made his stomach grumble audibly. 

"I saw your British friend in the lobby when I went to pay the delivery guy," Wilson said, crossing his arms while the doctors tore head-long into the cartons of takeout with cheap wooden chopsticks. 

"Yeah?" House grunted, gnawing at an egg roll like he'd not eaten in a year. 

Wilson snorted, knowing that House wasn't listening to a word he said. The food stole his attention, and Wilson could live with that. As long as House was eating something besides aspirin and coffee, he was happy. 

"Okay, well, I'll see you later?" 

House smiled gratefully up at him. Wilson's feet glued to the floor despite himself. 

It was a barely unreadable expression, if you weren't looking for it. But this was House's tentative affectionate smile. 

The exact one Wilson prized so highly. It made his head go a little fuzzy. 

"Thanks for the food, Wilson." House snarked. "Go home and rest up, pretty princess. Bald kids to save and all that, you know?"

Wilson heard the unspoken thank you. 

"When I get in tomorrow you have to fill me in on this new case of yours, okay?" 

"Deal," House mumbled through a mouthful of food. 

Just as Wilson turned to leave, a frazzled John Watson strode back in. Wilson gave Dr. Watson a supportive smile. 

"Ordered Chinese, hope your not vegetarian." 

"Hell no! Ta," John groaned in clear appreciation. "I could eat week-old leftovers that might've been contaminated by questionable goo, at this point!"

Wilson frowned, "Um,"

"Oh," John was already diving for a set of chopsticks. "Ignore me. Thanks very much for the meal, yeah?" 

Wilson mulled over the strange statement during most of his drive home. What sort of man had to deal with questionable goo in their fridge, really? 

TBC.


	5. The Hostie with the Mostie

"That bloody wanker isn't answering his damn phone," John begrudgingly admitted to his friend, his mouth carelessly gnawing on some sort of beef stir fry that smelled heavenly. John could barely taste the food at this point, he was inhaling the calories, knowing he'd need them.  

House propped his hand under his chin and scowled, "Well, um, right before you got here he… called my cell phone.” 

John's face was instantaneously and comically affronted, his pout almost pitiful. The expression would have normally sent House into peels of laughter, but he thankfully refrained and remained on topic. "I told him you wouldn't like it."

"Give me your mobile," John ordered, dropping the chopsticks and holding out his hand expectantly. 

House pointed absently at his iPhone situated on the desk between them. John swiped the screen and expertly punched in Sherlock's number, waiting for a long minute. The three fellows in the meantime ate very, very quietly. 

"That fuckin' bastard," John snarled when Sherlock's voicemail echoed, flinging the device away in a very similar manner as House just minutes before. 

Dr. Watson suddenly struck Thirteen as all kinds of exhausted. The British doctor looked utterly defeated as he rubbed his thumb and forefinger a tense brow, lips pursed as if he’d just swallowed something foul. 

"So, what did he say?"

House grimaced, the poor guy already knew, didn't he. 

"He's going to the Pellisier Estate, then." John deduced. That was the first thing Sherlock would do. 

John brought his fingers into his short slightly-greasy hair. He felt like he hadn't showered in months. He could hear his own pulse thrumming, palms beginning to sweat with nervous anxiety. Sherlock's antics often frightened him thrice a week, but at least John was constantly beside the idiot to make sure he was safe. Even if the genius detective wasn't watching his surroundings, the veteran was with trained precision. John understood best of all how easily Sherlock Holmes disappeared into convoluted and downright maudlin cases. His safety took a very noticeable back-burner. 

Chasing the high of his deductions was an addiction for Sherlock. And sadly, one that John also shared. Yet when Sherlock got distracted and reckless in dangerous situations, John became calm and steady. It was one of the reasons they seamlessly fit together. Like two jagged puzzle pieces inexplicably slotting into place. Dear God, John thought to himself, if Sherlock got himself killed before their wedding… he wasn't certain he'd survive it. He'd lived through Sherlock's death once before.

The mere thought of Sherlock crouched down at a crime scene over evidence, sharpened eyes studying details no other bloke would notice, not hearing anyone sneak up on him; it scared him senseless. It made John want to either burst into a fitful rage and start screaming, or sob until he couldn't any longer. John very nearly whimpered into his arm, not sure what he ought to do.  

"Er,” House forced a bit of cheeriness into his tone, “He did say that Lestrade and some of Mycroft's secret service are coming with him. So, there’s that. 

The former soldiers dropped his forehead to the desk with an audible thunk, "Bloody hell. I knew I shouldn't have left London." 

Greg reached over the takeout to gracelessly pat John's good shoulder a few times. The fellows remained wholly silent. It was astonishingly easy to pretend that they weren't in the room, intently listening. They hadn’t even met this Sherlock Holmes yet, and even if they'd been excited before, it kinda sounded like this guy was a train wreck.

House sighed and glanced out the window, "Maybe you should go back to my apartment and crash for a few hours? You can take my bike 'cause I know you hate that rental." 

John raised his head and shook it in weary negation. His voice was enervated when he responded, "I'll be fine. I just need a shower and a kip on your Eames."

House motioned to the food, "Finish eating first. Then Chase can show you were the locker room is."

The man ate like a zombie, Masters noticed, uncertain if they should keep discussing the case at hand. She exchanged a quick glance with Thirteen, obviously very much wanting to say something. Thirteen bit her lip and narrowed her eyes. Masters remained silent. 

After a couple minutes, without prompting, Chase stood and gestured Dr. Watson to follow him. John shouldered his backpack and barely looked conscious. Twenty minutes later, House scooped a blanket around his friends shoulders as the small doctor reclined and got comfortable in the confined space. 

"I'm gonna call Molly," House told him softly. "Catch up on the next victim and all that. I'll wake you in five hours?"

"Unless Sherlock calls," John demanded, voice slightly slurred with sleep. "If he calls you better wake me up, no matter what."

House sighed, he wasn't a freakin' maid, yet, "Understood, Captain." 

The diagnostician limped around his office, quietly closing curtains and shutting off the desk lamp. 

When he return to the conference room, Thirteen and Masters were still sitting at the table, finishing off the remnants of their meal and looking much more awake. Chase stood in the corner, making coffee.

Masters finally cleared her throat, "Poor guy. He must be exhausted." 

House snorted sarcastically, returning to John's laptop and accessing his Skype. He typed in Molly's number at Bart's, knowing that even if it was almost three am her time, she was ever the dedicated mortician. This case was thrilling, of course, and House knew Molly prided herself on being one of the few people Sherlock Holmes called a friend. When he'd lived in London, he'd seen the small girl throw away luxuries like sunlight and proper meals to satisfy Sherlock's curiosity. Capturing dangerous criminals, Greg's mind added, thinking of John passed out on his chair.

It wasn't morbid curiosity that motivated Sherlock. House knew it could never be just that.

As many others before him had pointed out, it would have been much easier for Sherlock to be a criminal than work alongside the police. Back before the fall, when paparazzi across the UK were smearing his name, John had a lone press conference with the BBC. House would never forget it. Captain Watson's righteous fury defended Sherlock's honor against Scotland Yard's instance that he was Moriatry. All without knowing the detective was not dead. House had, incidentally known. Mycroft was a bastard like that.

Back then, John thought Sherlock committed suicide. It had torn John's heart out not knowing why the detective did it; thinking that there might have been something he could do to prevent it. If only he hadn't argued with Sherlock the last time he'd seen him… House quietly let out a deep breathe of air, remembering the words from Sherlock's funeral.

_"You told me once, that you weren't a hero. There were times when I didn't even think you were human. But, let me tell you this. You were the best man, the most human… human being that I've ever known. And nobody will convince me he told me a lie. No, sir."_

House realized belatedly that he'd been standing stationary. His fellows were staring at him with open concern. He scowled, quickly tapping the enter key. The computer chimed nosily within the quiet office.

Molly's face was pale and gaunt when she appeared on screen.

"Oh, _'ello,_ Dr. House." She greeted in a far-away tone. She glanced at the other people in the room. "Where's John?" 

"Sleeping." House grunted. "He needs it."

Molly winced in commiseration, "I'm sure John resents the fact he's so far away when Sherlock is-"

"Being Sherlock?" House replied. "So, he wasn't lying about Lestrade and Mycroft's men?"

"No," Molly tucked a stray strand of hair behind her ear. "Besides, the murderer would have to be an utter imbecile to hide the body in such an obvious location before the experiment is completed." 

"What have you learned about the next victim?" House prompted. 

Molly reached away from the screen, bringing a glowing tablet near her face. It made her ivory skin appear translucent.  

"Fran Eisner, 18. Honors student from the same college…" Molly hummed, tapping her lip with an index finger absently as her eyes deftly scanned her tablet. "Her basal ganglia was taken, though this time some surrounding tissue was extracted. Same exact proficiency as the others, same injection site, no signs of abuse or assault to the victim. No signs of struggle, in fact. He's getting practiced, rehearsed at this."

Masters took a shaky breath in, capturing Molly's attention. She smiled at them warmly, "Oh, pardon. A bit rubbish at introductions, but, I'm Molly Hooper. I work as a specialist registrar at St. Bart's." 

The fellows rambled off their names in steady and quick succession, knowing House might interrupt at any moment. Tedious social niceties irked him like nothing else. 

"Anyway-" House barked. "Back to more important matters," 

"Sherlock should be finishing up at the Estate in about an hour." Molly murmured, not at all offended by House's caustic behavior. "But I warn you that he's… a little intense right now." 

"I know," House scowled. "He called." 

Molly's demeanor turned disapproving, "And he didn't talk to John, I suspect?" 

"Of course not." 

Molly huffed in clear agitation, "Ooooh! I'd swear, if he wasn't already bloody engaged to the best thing that's ever happened to him, I'd smack him on his beautiful cheekbones for being such a downright berk!"

"Sherlock Holmes is engaged?" Thirteen interrupted.

Both House and Molly stared at her as if she'd grown a second head. Then House seemed to shake himself out of it, pointing his index finger at Molly and wagging it.

"Not. A. Word." 

Molly's head tilted to the side, a shy smile blooming across her face. "Well, Dr. House, you're acting particularly accommodating-"

"So," House snapped, "Nothing else you can report?" 

Her dark bangs covered her eyes for a moment, she was obviously debating something internally.

"Unfortunately no. But." She hedged, finally admitting. "I've never seen such a professional kill."

Something in this strange British woman's voice made Chase's stomach tighten, the mood in the room shifted palpably.

"I mean to say, after all these years I've seen some pretty imaginative murder-methods, but it was never this… Not even Moriarty. Or Moran. Dr. House, those guys were professional killers but they were never this neat and tidy." 

"You seem to have a theory," Chase finally voiced the suspicion that had been caught in his throat. 

Molly nodded, her expression glum. "The Forest Hill cult. In 2013, I did the autopsies on those victims as well."

She paused, bringing her fingers up to her lips in a clearly unconscious but tellingly nervous gesture. "Sherlock's doing his best right now to prevent the next two unnamed girls from dying," 

"You think the murderer won't get caught in time?" House guessed. 

"House." Molly's eyes met his, surprised, "I'm certain he won't." 

House nodded, throat tight as he quipped, "Call if you have any news. We'll be up."

She waved unenthusiastically, dropping the call. The eldest doctor pursed his lips in agitation, glancing absently towards his office where he knew John was coma-sleeping.

"Okay," House muttered, "We aren't going at this the right way."

He limped over to the white board and erased the symptoms of the previous patient with his shirt-sleeve.  

Picking up the dry erase marker, he began writing in his messy scrawl: 

 

  1. (age: 20) Sophia Emerson (hostie with the mostie) (spinal chord & brainstem) AB +
  2. (age: 17) Dafiya Quadeer (frontal lobe) O-
  3. (age: 23) Una Illingsworth (parietal lobe) A+
  4. (age: 24) Madhu Emani (temporal lobe) O+
  5. (age: 21) Dana Edelstein (occipital lobe) B+
  6. (age: 18) Fran Eisner (basal ganglia) A-
  7. & 8\. ??



 

"Alright, let's compile the other stats into a comprehensive list." 

Masters nodded, standing in unison with Thirteen. Chase opened the first file, rattling off details. They began by building personal medical profiles of relevant information. They added ethnicity, religion, medical disorders, sexual activity. After a good hour their list was cramped and disorderly.

John's Skype was still open. His computer rang shrilly, Molly was on the other line.

"The next victim has been located." Once she saw John wasn't in the room she quickly rattled, "This time the body was found by Sherlock at the Estate, in a barn near the original site of the massacre. It looks like someone took up residency there, only vacated it recently. Lestrade is bringing the body in now. Sherlock's heading here, also, but he sounded…"

House tensed, "He sounded _what_ , Molly?"

"Petrified." Molly whispered, schooling her countenance into an unreadable mask. "You'd better wake John up."

TBC.


	6. Fra Mouro Highlands

House flinched imperceptibly, then glanced toward his office. The doctor absently squared his shoulders as he mentally steeled himself. He knew whatever Molly would say next, he wasn't going to like it. House knew his cousin was virtually impossible to surprise let alone startle. So, for him to be genuinely frightened? 

 _Fuck,_ House thought. 

Greg knew Sherlock was only truly and unashamedly scared once before in his life. Surprisingly, it hadn't been when he was using in University, or getting clean in his late twenties. And no, not fighting Moriarty, either. 

It was three years after the Reichenbach Fall. 

Sherlock had been incomprehensibly petrified when he didn't know if John would forgive him for faking his suicide. He'd just found out the good doctor was dating a nice nurse named Mary, back then, was cozy and societally conventional just like he'd always dreamed. Ordinary girlfriend, stable job and quaint flat. House could only imagine how dreadful this prospect seemed for the genius. 

Sherlock finally realized John might leave him behind, refuse to speak to him ever again. 

After all Sherlock did to protect him and all the inconceivably dangerous and awful battles he fought-  they would not keep John in his life. Thoughts of home were the only thing that kept Sherlock moving some days amidst those dark years. When the desire to use again diseased his body and mind like a plague. 

Sherlock hadn't considered he might lose not only his reputation and career but also his home. Or that his act of true altruism would be perceived as the ultimate selfishness. 

During the last stretch of his mission away, Sherlock visited House. 

Actually, he showed up in the middle of the night lounging at the piano and nearly gave House a heart attack. The detective was barely alive, severely injured after an operation in New Mexico went south. House patched him up and listened to the normally stoic and aloof man rasp and sob into the air as he meticulously stitched skin back together. 

House would never forget how Sherlock's lungs hitched, painful, and how he rambled aloud; thoughts of John. Always thoughts of John. It was the first time House fully comprehended how very much John meant to Sherlock. 

If there was one fact which stood as law, constant and untouchable, it was that Sherlock Byron Holmes would damn near tear the world apart to save John Hamish Watson. Through any means at his disposal.

"Tell me what's happened before I wake John," House demanded gruffly after an unnaturally long pause. He propped his cane on the chair and crossed his arms with consternation. 

Molly bit her lip, but answered seamlessly, "Like I said, Sherlock found the victim at the Estate. Naveen Davis, 22-years-old. It seems that the Estate was the base."

She scoffed indelicately, "I still maintain that was an utterly daft decision."

House huffed, impatient.

"The killer has relocated the host."

"Damn," House's expression dropped, tone rising a notch in dismay. "How the hell could a body in that fragile condition be moved at all?" 

Chase wasn't certain what his boss meant. He motioned toward the screen, a kind smile plastered between his cheeks, "Continue, Dr. Hooper." 

"I'm not a doctor." Molly mentioned absently before she shook her head, "Sherlock thinks the killer left the country."

"How the hell did he deduce that?" House wasn't suspicious of the information, more anxious about the motive. 

She motioned to respond but was swiftly interrupted. Lestrade spoke before his form appeared on camera. 

"Molly, 'ere are the background files on Davis-" The DI noticed the Skype call after a moment. 

Bending at his waist, he squinted until his vision adjusted to the glare. "Oh, Dr. House," he greeted half-heartedly with a thick London accent. 

Lestrade appeared especially exhausted. He'd dropped a least a stone since House last saw him, chin and cheeks covered with rough stubble that mirrored his own. House noted Lestrade's hair was entirely grey now, also. 

House purposefully dismissed the introductions with haste, "Doctors Chase, Thirteen, Masters- This is Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade. He's with the Yard and in charge of this chaos."

"I thought Holmes was in charge of the investigation," Masters replied innocently.

Lestrade scoffed but his gaze turned mirthful, "He only wishes." 

House ignored the niceties, instead gesturing towards the file, "What did you find out about her?" 

"Same as the others." Lestrade shrugged, nodding at Molly when she handed him a steaming cup of coffee. He regarded the fellows before adding, "Ideal University student, excellent marks. Kidnapped. Drugged. Surgically lobotomized. The center chunk of her brain scooped out."

"The thalamus and hypothalamus," Molly confirmed, leafing through a clipboard as she paced in the background. "I don't imagine this autopsy will turn up anything new, the injection site, everything is the same-" 

"So, what's got Sherlock freaked?" The diagnostician grunted curiously.  

"Remember the barn to the north of the original crime scene? The one the cassettes were found during the second raid?" Lestrade didn't bother to clarify himself or wait for an answer. "Well, it was recently well used and effectively vacated. No prints, no fibers, niente. We had twenty of our best, including Sherlock, ruthlessly examine that crime scene. Besides the body, on a eight by nine sheet of plastic, we didn't learn anything useful. Filthy hovel this barn."

Lestrade made a face, the universal expression for sheer disgust, "That barn used to be the place they'd do blood sacrifices, rape virgins. Pedophiliac incest in two instances. Bloody Forest Hill Cult."

The DI shifted his tangent and continued, "Yet the crime scene was somehow pristine and clear in terms of useful evidence. Whatever this criminal was doing to keep the host alive, it must've required a phenomenal amount of expensive and delicate medical equipment. This barn possessed the space and electricity. A back-up generator was still warm to the touch when we arrived. Four hours tops since the guy left. Plane tracks on the Eastern field. Likely a modified military model. The kind a rich bloke uses for holiday. It's also the kind that can jump across the ocean in under ten hours. We-"

House flinched, holding up his hand to make Lestrade stop. He was now beginning to understand why Sherlock was so damn nervous. 

"I'm not following." Thirteen admitted.

Lestrade gave a foreboding nod. He swallowed a gulp of scalding coffee and cleared his throat.

"It means the killer was prepared to move. He knew Sherlock would inevitably investigate the Estate, and was one step ahead of him the entire time. The murderer left this body as a warning of sorts." 

Masters shivered, wrapping her hands around her stomach, as she inquired in a timid squeak, "What sort of warning?" 

"For one thing, he already has the last girl. Most likely finished the host," Lestrade paused and glared down at his steaming coffee mug in concentration as he slowly parsed out the right string of words. 

"For another, because Sherlock linked the cult with these murders just yesterday, that makes him three steps behind. The killer is clearly tracking Sherlock's movements, and is aware that-"

"John isn't in London." House finished for him, voice carefully steady and blank. "The killer has to be cognizant of the fact that I'm involved, then."

Lestrade set his mug down off screen, steadily regarding House before he reluctantly voiced his initial suspicion, "A grudge."

"For the deaths of Margery Elliott and Amery Kellen." House felt his stomach drop, he gulped and nearly shivered.

His fellows saw House's face morph into pallid dread. The assembled professionals all watched with something akin to unwilling sympathy as House's entire body shuddered. His lips thinned into a pursed line as he nodded tightly, too self-aware. 

"I want to put you both under American police protection." The DI mentioned hesitantly. 

 "No fuckin' way." House shook his head fiercely, demeanor turning aggressive, "We'll never catch this sick bastard if you stick John and I in a goddamn detainment facility. Back _off_ , Lestrade." 

"I figured as much." The British police officer sighed in a resigned yet understanding manner. "You can bet Mycroft's watching, regardless." 

House bit his lip, "Where's Sherlock?"

Molly popped back on screen, pacing as she stared at her mobile. She looked very nearly in tears, "Um- Well,"

Greg tore the phone out of Molly's hand, his face filling with shameless dismay as he read aloud:

 

 

> Gone hunting. Complete autopsy & send to GH. Tell JW: Fra Mauro Highlands. SH.

"What the hell does that even mean?" Chase blurted, slamming his hands on the table. He wasn't used to this, didn't like it, not this scary serial killer shit. "This doesn't make any sense."

Thirteen and Masters nodded in unison. The palpable fear radiating off House did not help any of their unease. 

House took a deep breath and turned, "I ought to wake up John. Molly, Lestrade, stay on the line for a minute."

House limped back to his office, and delicately kneeled beside his friend. Dammit, the man looked so tired even as he slept. Best make this quick, he figured. 

"John," House roughly shook his shoulder, watching John swiftly regain consciousness.

"What happened?" John slurred, rubbing his mouth with the back of his hand as he threw off the blanket and stood. 

"Message from Sherlock," House whispered. 

"What?" John's eyes crinkled.

"Lestrade and Molly are on Skype, better they fill you in," House informed him, standing with a flinch. He rubbed his aching limb, slowly pulling out a bottle of aspirin from his pocket. He shook three into his palm and swallowed them dry. 

The pair went back into the conference room, Lestrade was speaking with the fellows. When he caught sight of John, the detective inspector flinched. The couple hours John slept clearly hadn't done him much good. 

"What's happened?" John repeated, resigned. 

"Sherlock's gone AWOL." Lestrade informed him grimly.

John crumpled a little, wryly stating, "Surprise, surprise." 

"He thinks the killer is going after you, John." House added, rueful. "'Fra Mouro Highlands.'" 

John spun towards House, aghast and sputtering, "Is _that_ what the message was?" 

The doctor nodded in affirmation. 

"What does it mean?" Thirteen was uncertain if she should've asked.

Dr. Watson sank into the nearest chair, his shoulders slumping as he cradled his head in his arms and mumbled, "Its code. It means that I'm in immediate danger, and should stay still."

Chase frowned, "Um, okay? Does this happen often to you then, Dr. Watson?" 

"More than you can imagine." Lestrade humorlessly answered for him, "It's always been this way with the two of them."

"What way?" House hedged. 

"Together you idiots are unstoppable." Lestrade told John affectionately. "Separated, you both tend to lash out. You're stupidly self-sacrificing when it comes to each other. Always have been."

Molly sighed audibly in the distance, "That is a rather accurate assessment, yes." 

John croaked, nearly inaudible, "Where do'you reckon he's gone off to?" 

Lestrade filled him in with a practiced no-nonsense manner. He added a few details about the state of the crime scene, then Molly began informing him of various facts pertaining to the most recent victim. 

House added these notes on the white board list. 

Lestrade finally inquired about what House and his team had learned. The diagnostician dutifully dumbed down his explanation on blood substitutes and biocides. Chase echoed in layman's terms other obscure medical practices that were relevant, including the process required to keep the host alive. 

John didn't appear to be listening to any of this, he was staring intently at House's whiteboard, reading it over and over again. 

' _20.172324_ ,' John tapped the numbers out in morse code with his index finger on the glass table. ' _21.1822…. two more digits_.'

House reached across the table to trap his hand, "John?" 

John flinched, returning his attention to the screen, "Pardon?" 

Lestrade gave him his best commiserating _'I know Sherlock is crazy'_ and _'things will be just fine'_ expression. It made John edgy, his temper nearly spiking.

"What?" John quietly tried not to snarl. 

"I said," Lestrade soothed, "Sherlock is most likely heading to New Jersey. If you just sit tight, he'll be there in under eight hours." 

House gaped at this information, "So by out of the country, you meant Sherlock thinks the killer is coming to America?" 

The hardened officer nodded grimly in affirmation before speaking to John directly, "Sit tight, John. Stay at the hospital for a few hours until Sherlock arrives. I'll contact you if we learn anything else."

"In the mean time," House dismissively added with a posh fake British accent, "We have more important feats to accomplish."

He waved in a mock cheer at Molly and Lestrade, finger hovering above the keyboard of John's laptop.

"Ta, taaaa, mates." 

TBC. 


	7. The Reckless Oncologist

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The coordinates in this story don't match to a location in America. You'd actually end up in Ennedi, Africa, but whatever. I took artistic liberties. I also promise that Sherlock will make his appearance in the very next chapter!

John grit his teeth, agitation morphing his normally passive face into a hideous scowl. 

Sherlock was on his way. Probably freaking out. The detective thought that the murderer had been targeting John from the start, but hadn't wanted them to know it. Sherlock did not take threats to his safety lightly, and John knew just how far the detective would go to protect him. Not that he was the one who needed protection, he thought to himself grimly. John was the combat-hardened doctor who invaded Afghanistan, after all. He could protect himself, thank you very much. 

Turning his mind back to the day he'd shot Margery and Amery, he didn’t regret it for a moment. People like that were better off dead. Yet, Alec Pellisier was also dead. 

So who is avenging them? 

House spoke that exact thought aloud a moment later, "Who the hell could this killer be? I thought that entire family were dead and buried.”  

John pulled his laptop towards him, accessing Sherlock’s original spreadsheet with cult member information. The British doctor masked his expression, trying not to let the younger doctors on to the fact that he was getting very, _very_ nervous. John felt distinctly like a pawn in a game of chess; as if the killer was purposefully moving players square by square. 

Until, checkmate. But what would that checkmate entail? 

"So, the final girl has already been murdered?" Chase frowned, crossing his arms over his chest. "Why the hell would the killer be coming all the way to America with the host, then? Just to get at Dr. Watson? Doesn't seem likely." 

"Wouldn't he rather have Dr. Watson come to him?" Thirteen added. 

John's smile was rueful, "You think that this person is doing things logically?"

House turned his chin towards the white board. "We need to-" 

He was cut off when the computer chimed again. House snarled, "What, now?"

John glared balefully down towards the screen, "Got a new image from our murderer."

"Neuroimaging of the completed brain?" Masters asked, curious despite herself. 

"No,” The former solider shook his head in negation. “It’s a American birth certificate." 

John clicked to the email Lestrade sent, and pulled up the PDF to the telly screen. Emiko Takemoto. Quickly doing the maths he absently muttered, "Nineteen. That's it, then." 

Masters was confused, "What?" 

Dr. Watson launched to his feet and paced the length on the room. "I need to grab my computer charger, then-" he rambled and wandered back into House's office. 

The office blinds were still closed. When he leaned down to grab his backpack, he noticed a white envelope perched beside House's computer. Walking over, he picked it up and stared at his friend's name. Turning it around, his stomach sank. It was sealed with wax, the stamp a long memorized insignia. It was the Pellisier emblem. A shiver ran down John's spine. Dear god. 

Somebody had placed this envelope on House's desk while John was still sleeping. Had to have. Otherwise the diagnostician would've noticed. The thought of a serial killer right beside him while he took a kip... 

Letting out a shaky breath, he quickly tucked the envelope into his pocket and scurried back to the conference room. 

"Look, Sherlock isn't going to be here for a few hours. I-" he made an aborted gesture as he dropped the charger on the desk, "I need to get some fresh air, clear my head. We are likely going after this guy as soon as he lands. I’m fairly certain Lestrade has already gotten in touch with the American police force and updated them with relevant details. He’ll send whatever new information he receives to my laptop.”  

“Going _after_ the killer?” Thirteen’s tone was aghast. “How? You don’t even know where he is.” 

“The murderer won’t wait long to make his presence known once Sherlock’s landed.” John sounded certain.

"Oh?” House blinked, a little surprised, “You know it’s exceptionally dim to go wandering off on your own when there is a serial killer targeting you, right? You better stay put.” 

“I’ll be fine." John snorted in amusement, "This isn’t exactly my first time chasing a violent manic of a criminal, Greg. Let me take your motorbike around the hospital a few times. With a helmet on no one will know it’s me. I’ll have my mobile.” 

Greg twiddled his fingers together. He trusted John not to do anything stupid. Fishing his keys from his back pocket, he held them aloft. “Alright, do what you need to do. Just be back before Sherlock gets here and has a panic attack.”

Dr. Watson gave a wane smile, wandering back to the office to grab House's helmet and leather jacket. He felt a little guilty about lying to Greg. 

But he knew what he needed to do to keep Greg safe. 

He noticed House’s spare cane sitting in the corner, and snagged it, hiding it underneath the bulky jacket before striding back into the conference room a second time. 

“When I get back you can update me on all the riveting discoveries you find,” John stated with false cheer. 

Masters and Thirteen scowled in perfect unison but didn’t look up at him. Chase was busy reading the spreadsheet on his computer. 

House glared at the whiteboard, so John left without saying another word.

John walked down to the parking ramp, knowing that House coveted his handicap spot. He often said it was the only perk of being a cripple. Standing beside the bike, he glanced around to check if the coast was clear. Grabbing his mobile, he deftly removed the GPS tracking chip from the device. Dropping it behind the back tire of the motorbike, he zipped up the jacket and pulled the helmet on. 

It wouldn’t take long for House to realize the chip wasn’t tracking him. 

So, his first step was to distract the taciturn man. And he knew just the person who might be able to help.

Straddling the motorbike, he adjusted the cane into place. Putting it in reverse, he made sure that the GPS chip was crushed under the full weight, damaging it irreparably. 

John tore out of the ramp and into the cool night. Autumn was his favorite season. Princeton was a beautiful city, he noted absently. He would’ve loved to have done just as he’d said; drive around to clear his head and take in the sights. But now was not the time.

John arrived at Baker Street fifteen minutes later, musing at how disgustingly ironic it was that Wilson and Greg had the same damn address as him and Sherlock. How was that even possible? 

He knocked politely on Apartment 1B and waited patiently. 

Wilson looked bleary and was wearing pajamas when he opened the door. No surprise, it was late at night. He stared blankly at John for a long moment before moving aside to let the doctor in. “Oh, hello again, Dr. Watson. House didn't give you a key?” 

“Sorry to bother you, Dr. Wilson,” John greeted, biting his lip anxiously he glanced away. "And, ah, I guess he did." 

“Um, what’s up?" The oncologist inquired, bringing his fingers through his sleep mused hair. "Come here to get a few hours of sleep or something?” 

He was obviously commenting on the fact that John was wearing House’s coat and holding his helmet. 

“No,” John murmured, cautious, “Actually, I was wondering if I could ask a favor?” 

Wilson blinked, “Okay? Sure.” 

“Our case has taken a,” he paused just inside the doorway, “turn. I’m not sure how much Greg's already told you.”

“Okay…”

John hesitated again, not sure what to say next. Lie? Tell the truth? If Sherlock were here he’d already be expertly shamming this poor doctor. John wasn’t like that, though. He'd tell it like it was. A dangerous situation which required immediate attention. 

“Want some tea?” Wilson asked nonchalantly, already wandering into the kitchen. He could tell by the grim expression on Dr. Watson’s face that he wasn’t going to especially like whatever this favor was. 

Placing the kettle on, he rummaged around the cabinet next to the sink as John perched on a stool.

Wilson cleared his throat, “Green Tea okay?” 

“Yes, ta,” John muttered, pulling out his cellphone when it buzzed from his pants pocket. 

Sherlock’s name lit up the screen, the photo beneath was supremely unflattering. John had taken it while Sherlock was pulling a face and yelling at Lestrade for something. Sherlock detested having his photo taken, and John enjoyed taking them mostly because it annoyed the detective.

Dammit, what awful timing. He'd been wanting to speak with the damn man for hours, and now he finally calls? Sherlock was going to read into him not answering, and that worried John. Sherlock would probably call House right after, so he might as well get straight to the point. 

“You need to take that?” 

John shook his head in negation, silencing his phone with a pinched expression. “No.” 

“So, what's this favor, then?” Wilson braced his elbows on the counter between them, staring at the British man thoughtfully. "Is House in trouble again?" 

“I might as well be frank.” John felt his phone vibrate in his pocket again. He ignored it and continued, “We're going after a serial killer. That’s the current case, highly confidential, very hard to explain. The thing you need to know is that this killer is targeting Greg specifically.”

Wilson’s eyebrows shot up on his forehead and he managed a weak, “What?” 

“The murderer has traveled to America, and is on the outskirts of Princeton as we speak, tracking Greg's movements.”

“How do you know that? Shouldn’t we call the cops?”

Dr. Watson signed, “I’m a military veteran, it's just something you pick up I suppose. You know how Greg writes info about patients on that whiteboard of his?"

Wilson sighed belatedly, motioning for him to continue. 

"Well, I noticed that the murderer was leaving various clues behind. In this instance, with the victims age. Combine the numbers and you get a set of coordinates. 20.172324, 21.182219. It points to a location just outside of your city. Looks to be an old factory or something similar. And no, getting the police involved would either slow the investigation down or force the murderer to act.”

“And House doesn’t know?”

“No. If he did, he’d likely do something rash.” The doctor grimaced, “Just like I’m about to. Anyway, I need your help."

He emphasized, "It's very urgent. I need you to distract House for at least two hours. Keep him away from his phone and email, at least.”  

Wilson snorted, “That’s easy enough. Hold on a sec,”

He wandered into his bedroom, unplugging his phone from the charger. Wilson dialed Cuddy’s number by memory.

“Wilson?” Cuddy had clearly been asleep.

“Hey, Lisa. I’m sorry to bother you so late, but I’m really worried about House.”

John’s jaw dropped as he hastily stood, but Wilson held one finger aloft to stop him. 

“The idiot hasn’t slept in over thirty hours, and he won’t listen to me. I need you to convince him to get at least a nap in, you know how he is.”

Cuddy spoke on the other end, Wilson smiled, “Thanks, Lisa, I really appreciate it. Yes, alright, yeah, you too.” 

He hung up. “Done.” 

John was baffled, “There is no way in hell Greg is going to sleep while a case is on!” 

He was very much like Sherlock in that respect. 

Wilson agreed, crossing his arms. “So what do you think he will do when Cuddy orders him to nap?”

John’s eyes widened in stunned realization. 

“He’ll hide away in a office or patients room somewhere and frantically work on the case just to spite her and prove he can.” Wilson confirmed. “His favorite hiddy-hole is in a longterm coma patients room. Because of the sensitive equipment, House knows better than to bring his cell phone. The fellows will track him down if anything happens but that should give you a few hours.”

“Clever,” Dr. Watson smiled genuinely.

Wilson nodded, “So, tell me why I did that?” 

John grimaced, “Well." 

The kettle whistled. Wilson got up and grabbed two mugs, pouring hot water in them and adding the tea bags. He set one in front of Dr. Watson, who stared down at it thoughtfully. 

“With Greg distracted, he won’t know that I’m going after this guy alone.” 

“Going after? Who?” Wilson’s jawline tensed and he nearly dropped his tea, “The killer?” 

John nodded with resignation. 

“If I told Greg about the coordinates, he’d demand that he go with. He isn't very good at the chasing criminals part. Last time he tried he nearly got me and my partner killed. This guy has to be confronted as soon as possible, before dawn at least. With Greg distracted, and me wearing his jacket and carrying his cane-”

“The killer will think you’re House. Well, except the height difference. Why would you want that?" 

“He actually thinks I’m the one being targeted because of a past incident, but I don't believe that to be the case.” John admitted. 

Wilson held his hands up, “Hold on, hold on. Let me get this straight- House thinks crazy serial killer is going after you. You think he’s going after him. So you left disguised as him, didn’t tell him, and are going after this murderer without anyone knowing?” 

John sighed, yeah, it did sound exceptionally foolish when he put it like that. 

“That’s so cool!” Wilson enthused with admiration, catching John off guard. "Awful plan, but very cool. Like a crime show." 

“Er, thanks?” 

“What are you going to do when you come face-to-face with the murderer?”

“Haven’t gotten that far yet.” John confessed, glumly adding that he didn’t have his gun either. 

Wilson thrummed with excitement, the expression making him look boyish. He walked towards the closet, “Oh, god, I’m about to do something stupid as well, I suppose.”

“What?” 

Pushing a few coats aside, Wilson got on his tip-toes and returned clutching a black case. “I’m not a hunter or anything, not really, but I do own a hunting rifle.”

Wilson stared at the box in disbelief, it was nowhere nearly large enough to contain even a dismantled hunting rifle. 

“House keeps a handgun, though it’s not registered.” Wilson pulled out a Glock and a few clips of ammo. “He thinks I don’t know about it so I never mentioned that I did.” 

“You’re going to help me?” John croaked, utterly floored. He was starting to understand why House clung to this bloke, he was obviously far different than his outward appearance painted. 

"House will probably kill me if he finds out. And before I lend you this, I have a few more questions."

"Okay. But I haven't much time." John insisted. 

"Well, why do you have to go after this guy, alone? Just because he's targeting House doesn't mean you need to go without backup." 

John understood where this was going, "This murderer. He's not just targeting House. He's targeting my partner as well." 

"Who is your partner?" Wilson asked innocently. 

That's when John realized that Wilson had absolutely no idea who he was. He'd thought House would've told him by this point, about London and all that. Apparently not. When they'd met before, House had simply stated that John was a family friend, nothing more. 

"Sherlock Holmes." John finally answered. 

Wilson made a face, "You mean his cousin? That detective guy? Wait, but before you said you call him Greg because of blackmail from your fiancé…"

Wilson was obviously doing the mental leap. 

"Honestly, this killer is probably going after all three of us. But House doesn't have any combat training whatsoever, and Sherlock…"

"Is still in London?" Wilson assumed, shaking his head and obviously trying to figure out what the hell was going on. 

John let him think that. It was easier than explaining how he was simply protecting his mad genius. 

"Well, there's that," 

Wilson watched as Dr. Watson pulled a folded note out of his pocket. It was in a folded envelope with House's name written in neat penmanship. "Got any plastic gloves?" 

The other man quickly fetched some from the first aid in the bathroom, "What do you need these for?"

John snapped the gloves on and deftly sliced the envelope open. "This showed up for House on his desk at the hospital. It's from the killer." 

Wilson flinched, seeming to realize that John hadn't been joking about how serious the situation was. 

Unsheathing the paper, it read one line, which John spoke aloud, "Sed qui me defendet?" 

Wilson frowned, "Latin?"

John glanced up at him, "You know Latin?" 

"A little from when I was a kid," Wilson affirms, "Defendet means protect, but that's all I got. I still have a latin dictionary around somewhere." 

He goes into the living room, scanning one of the jam-packed bookshelves until he finds what he's looking for. Together they slowly decipher the message:  

"However who protects me?" John translates aloud.

"Know what the means?"

He shook his head, "No, but Sherlock- never mind. Listen, did you have any other questions, because I should probably get going." 

"If you're going, I'm joining you." Wilson stated.

John's gaze morphed into a glare, "No way." 

"Listen," Wilson held a hand up, attempting to sound reasonable, "I know I don't have combat training or anything, but you can't go in alone. At least if we go together I can keep a watch on you."

John scowled, "And what good would that do?" 

Dr. Wilson opined, "Well, for one thing, I won't let you take House's gun if you don't let me tag along. For another, you'll have a second firearm on your side. I can bring my gun, it's in good shape. I have a bullet proof vest you can use. Also, a look out. I'll stay out of the building and all that if you insist."

"House would fucking kill me if I let you do that." John stated flatly. 

This seemed to only encourage the other man, "C'mon, Dr. Watson-"

"Just call me John," 

"Just call me James, then. If anything happens to you, you'll have a doctor on hand. If things go wrong, I can call in the cops. Think of it like a failsafe." 

"You're awfully reckless," John pointed out as Wilson pulled the bullet-proof vest from the closet. 

"You need to be a little reckless to be House's best friend." 

John was going to regret this. "Okay, get changed, wear black. We need to get going as soon as possible." 

Wilson's grin split across his face, already rushing to his room, "Roger that!" 

He was _really_ going to regret this.

TBC. 


End file.
